She paused a moment and thought of how she had behaved back at the factory. She thought about the frustration she’d felt, and the anger directed toward the helpless employee. She thought about her mother, about Gobert’s shop. She thought about the Carambars.
She passed a hand wearily across her countenance, trying to steady her own nerves. “If I’m honest, it wasn’t pretty,” she said, softly.
“I’m sorry, dear. Is it a case?”
She looked at him, and again spotted just how gaunt his face seemed. His cheekbones were too sharp, his eyes too dark. “Robert… you don’t look well. Stop telling me—”
Before she could finish, her phone began to ring, the vibrating emanating from her sweater pocket. Frowning, she fished her phone out.
“Sorry,” she muttered, “it’s work.” She clicked the phone, held it up to her ear. “Can it wait?” she asked.
“Afraid not,” said the voice on the other end. She immediately recognized it as the voice of Executive Foucault’s assistant. “He wants you in. You’re needed over at the office.”
Adele massaged the bridge of her nose with her free hand, the cold phone still pressed against her cheek. She wanted to shout in frustration, but instead said quietly, “I’m on my way.”
She lowered the phone and looked at Robert.
“You’re going in?”
She nodded.
“Anything to do with what happened this morning?”
She sighed and shrugged. “Not sure. This isn’t over,” she added, pointing at him. “If you need anything…” Her voice softened and she watched her old mentor. “I hope you know all you have to do is ask.”
Robert Henry made a crossing motion over his chest, and then kissed his fingers. “I’m fine, darling. Would these lips lie to you, my dear?” He smiled, and for a moment, she saw her usual, jovial mentor sitting across from her in his leather seat. He still had two missing teeth, glimpsed above his smile. She had heard at least ten stories regarding how he had lost those teeth.
Sighing, she pushed up, taking another few mouthfuls of cereal. Her growling stomach would have to wait.
“Look,” she said, “I’ll be back. Thanks for the cereal.”
“No worries,” he said. “I hope everything turns out okay.” Then he broke into another series of coughing.
The sound haunted her, and for a moment she paused in the doorway. She wanted to stop, to refuse the call into the office. To figure out what was up with her friend. But when Robert wanted to be quiet, he could keep his secrets with the best of them. She’d heard stories of him once being captured by a gang of drug runners in Bordeaux. The stories said he’d been tortured, but hadn’t said a word. Stories about Robert often circulated around the DGSI. He had been one of their best operators from the very start, and had led a long, tenured career before the agency had even formed.
“I’ll be thinking of you,” she said.
He gave a little wave of his fingers, then leaned back as if exhausted in his chair.
She felt a surge of fear rising up in her. Perhaps she needed to go for another run in the afternoon. But somehow, even the runs weren’t doing what they used to. The fear seemed hard to suppress. She had to convince herself Robert would be okay. He had to be. She moved out of the mansion door, down the steps, toward the sealed gate. Hopefully, whatever awaited her at the office wouldn’t have anything to do with the factory. She picked up the pace, hurrying out the gate and toward her parked vehicle.
CHAPTER FOUR
Adele pulled her sedan into the parking spot nearest the security checkpoint. She glanced up and noted Agent Renee’s new lease—a five-year-old Corvette—sitting askew across one of the handicapped spots. She rolled her eyes at the poor parking job and the new sports car, but then suppressed a small smile which also inserted itself across her countenance as she exited her own car, shut and locked the door, and strode with quick steps toward the doors to the office.
Her hair still felt grainy against her forehead, and she was still in a sweatshirt and slacks. She hadn’t had time to shower yet, but supposed Foucault would have to deal with her appearance given the abrupt nature of his summons.
She passed Agent Renee’s Corvette and then moved through the sliding doors that led to the metal detectors and the four security guards waiting just within the lobby. She nodded to each in turn, flashed her credentials, and then moved into the DGSI building. The air still smelled faintly of fresh paint—the building itself was new, having only been established this side of the twenty-first century. She noted red painting strips with the texture of confetti lining the walls above the entry.
“They almost done?” she asked one of the guards.
The woman sighed and shrugged. She waved distractedly toward a ladder leaning against the back wall. “Supposed to be this week. Hopefully we can wait another decade before another touch-up.”
Adele winced sympathetically, smiled, and then moved past security toward the elevator. She stepped right past the metal compartment and took the stairs instead.
One flight, two, three. She spiraled up the stairs, moving toward the top floor.
Down another hall, at the end of a carpeted floor, she reached the familiar opaque glass door. Adele smoothed her sweater, inhaled, and sniffed faintly at the air. Then she fanned out her sweater a bit, tugging at the front and lifting her arms to shake the article of clothing.
This done, she knocked politely against the opaque door.
“Ah!” came an immediate call. “I believe she may in fact be gracing us with her presence after all. Can’t see you on that side of the door, Agent Sharp!”
Adele winced at the tenor to Foucault’s voice. He was trying to be clever. Whenever he tried to be clever it meant he was in a bad mood. She hid her expression as she pushed open the door and stepped into the Executive’s office.
The air was filled with smoke. Executive Foucault had a cigarette between two fingers and was breathing a puff toward the open window behind his desk. Some of the smoke was ushered out of the room by a small, spinning desk fan. A series of crushed orange cigarette butts suggested this wasn’t Foucault’s first morning indiscretion.
Agent Renee was sitting in the room as well. The tall, handsome French agent leaned against his chair across from Foucault’s desk. His long legs were extended and his shoes pressed firmly against the varnished oak, just below the lip of the desk and out of sight so Foucault couldn’t see the stains being left on the furniture.
Adele hesitantly approached, glancing at John, then Foucault.
“Sorry,” she said, instinctively. “Was on a run.”
“Looks like it.” John nodded, giving her a sidelong look by tilting his head and peering at her over the back of his chair.
Adele smiled politely at Foucault, but quiet, so only John could hear, she muttered, “Shut up.”
He winked at her. “Good to see you too.”
Foucault, who’d lowered his cigarette, was frowning, glancing between John and Adele. He narrowed his eyes shrewdly and half opened his mouth, but then seemed to think better of it. He frowned, thinking through his words carefully, then he took another puff and slowly, he ventured, “You two know the policy about office relationships—yes?”